GRAND'THER  BALDWIN'S 


THANKSGIVING 


OTHER  BALLADS  AND  POEMS 


HORATIO    ALGER,    JR 


KING-,     Publisher 

Corner  Bromfield  and   Washington  Streets 
BOSTON* 


COPYRIGHT. 

1875. 
A.    K.    LORINO. 


Kocltwell  &  Churchill,  Printers  and  Stereotype™, 
3)  Arch  Street,  Boatou. 


CONTENTS. 

BALLADS.  PAGE 

GRAND'THER  BALDWIN'S  THANKSGIVING  ....  7 

ST.  NICHOLAS 15 

BARBARA'S  COURTSHIP 20 

THE  CONFESSION 24 

ROSE  IN  THE  GARDEN      .                 28 

PHCEBE'S  WOOING 34 

THE  LOST  HEART 40 

JOHN  MAYNARD -    45 

FRIAR  ANSELMO 51 

MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 

IN  THE  CHURCH  AT  STRATFORD-ON-AVON        ...  57 

MRS.  BROWNING'S  GRAVE  AT   FLORENCE        ...  59 

MY  CASTLE 61 

APPLE-BLOSSOMS 65 

SUMMER  HOURS 67 

JUNE 70 

LITTLE  CHARLIE 71 

THE  WHIPPOORWILL  AND  I 74 

CARVING  A  NAME 77 


CONTENTS. 

IN  TIME  OF    WAR.  PAGI, 

GONE  TO  THE  WAR  .        . 81 

WHERE  is  MY  BOY  TO-NIGHT  ? 84 

A  SOLDIER'S  VALENTINE  . S7 

LAST  WORDS 90 

SONG  OP  THE  CROAKER 96 

KING  COTTON 99 

OUT  OF  EGYPT 102 

THE  PRICE  OP  VICTORY 106 

HARVARD   ODES. 

I.  —  FAIR  HARVARD,  DEAR   GUIDE   OF  OUR  YOUTH'S 

GOLDEN  DAYS Ill 

II.  —  As  WE  MEET  IN  THY  NAME,  ALMA  MATER,  TO 
NIGHT 113 

III.  —  FAIR  HARVARD,  THE  MONTHS  HAVE  ACCOMPLISHED 

THEIR    ROUND    .        .        .        .        '.        .        .115 
IV. — THERE'S  A  FOUNTAIN  OF  FABLE,  WHOSE  MAGICAL 

POWER ,        .  117 

OCCASIONAL  ODES. 

BI-CENTENNIAL  ODE         .......  121 

FOR  THE  CONSECRATION  OF  A  CEMETERY  .  124 


BALLADS. 


BALLADS. 


GRAND'THER    BALDWIN'S    THANKS 
GIVING. 

UNDERNEATH  protecting  branches,  from  the  highway 

just  aloof, 
Stands   the  house  of  Grand' ther  Baldwin,  with  its 

gently  sloping  roof. 

Square  of  shape  and  solid-timbered,  it  was  standing, 

I  have  heard. 
In  the  days  of  Whig  and  Tory,  under  royal  George 

the  Third. 

Many  a  time,  I  well  remember,  I  have  gazed  with 
childish  awe 

At  the  bullet-hole  remaining  in  the  sturdy  oaken  door, 
V) 


8  BALLADS. 

Turning  round  half-apprehensive  (recking  not  how 

time  had  fled) 
Of  the  lurking  savage  foeman  from  whose  musket  it 

was  sped. 

Not  far  off,  the  barn,  plethoric  with  the  autumn's 
harvest  spoils, 

Holds  the  farmer's  well-earned  trophies  —  the  guer 
don  of  his  toils ; 

Filled  the  lofts  with  hay,  sweet-scented,  ravished  from 

the  meadows  green, 
While  beneath  are  stalled  the  cattle,  with  their  quiet, 

drowsy  mien. 

Deep  and  spacious  are  the  grain-bins,  brimming  o'er 

with  nature's  gold; 
Here  are  piles  of  yellow  pumpkins  on  the  barn-floor 

loosely  rolled. 


GRAND'THER  BALDWIN'S  THANKSGIVING.  9 

Just  below  in  deep  recesses,  safe  from  wintry  frost 

and  chill. 
There  are  heaps  of  ruddy  apples  from  the  orchard 

on  the   hill. 

Many  a  year   has    Grand'ther    Baldwin    in    the    old 

house  dwelt  in  peace, 
As  his  hair  each  year  grew  whiter,  he  has  seen  his 

herds  increase. 

Sturdy  sons  and  comely  daughters,  growing  up  from 

childish  plays. 
One  by  one  have  met  life's  duties,  and  gone    forth 

their  several  ways. 

Hushed   the    voice   of  childish    laughter,  hushed    is 

childhood's  merry  tone, 
By  the  fireside  Grand'ther  Baldwin  and  his  good  wife 

sit  alone. 


10  BALLADS. 

Yet  once  within   the    twelvemonth,   when   the    days 

are  short  and  drear, 
And   chill    winds  chant  the  requiem  of  the  slowly 

fading  year, 

When   the    autumn  work   is   over,   and  the    harvest 

gathered  in, 
Once  again  the  old  house  echoes  to  a  long  unwonted 

din. 

Logs  of  hickory  blaze  and  crackle   in  the  fireplace 

huge  and  high, 
Curling  wreaths  of  smoke  mount  upward  to  the  gray 

November  sky. 

Ruddy  lads  and  smiling  lasses.,  just  let    loose   from 

schooldonrs  cares, 
Patter,  patter,  race  and  clatter,  up  and   down    the 

great  hall  stairs. 


GRAND' "I 'HER  BALDWIN'S   THANKSGIVING.  11 

All   the  boys  shall  hold  high   revel ;    all  the  girls 

shall  have  their  way,  — 
That's  the  law  at  Grand' ther  Baldwin's  upon  each 

Thanksgiving  Day. 

From  the  parlor's  sacred  precincts,  hark !  a  madder 

uproar  yet: 
Roguish    Charlie's    playing    stage-coach,    and    the 

stage-coach  has  upset! 

Joe,  black-eyed  and  laughter-loving,  Grand'ther's 
specs  his  nose  across, 

Gravely  winks  at  brother  Willie,  who  is  gayly  play 
ing  horse. 

Grandma's  face  is  fairly  radiant;   Grand'ther  knows 

not  how  to  frown, 
Though  the  children,  in  their   frolic,  turn   the   old 

house  upside  down. 


1 Z  BALLADS. 

For  the  boys  may  hold  high   revel,   and    the  girls 

must  have  their  way; 
That's   the  law  at  Grand'ther  Baldwin's  upon  each 

Thanksgiving  Day. 

But  the  dinner  —  ah  !  the  dinner  —  words  are  feeble 

to  portray 
What  a  culinary  triumph  is  achieved  Thanksgiving 

Day! 

Fairly  groans  the  board  with  dainties,  but  the  tur 
key  rules  the  roast, 

Aldermanic  at  the  outset,  at  the  last  a  fleshless 
ghost. 

Then  the  richness  of  the  pudding,  and  the  flavor  of 

the  pie, 
When  you've  dined  at  Grandma  Baldwin's  you  will 

know  as  well  as  I. 


GRAND'THER  BALDWIN'S   THANKSGIVING.  13 

When,  at   length,  the  feast  was  ended,  Grand'ther 

Baldwin  bent  his  head, 

And,  amid  the  solemn  silence,  with  a  reverent  voice, 

he  said :  — 

"Now  unto  God,  the  Gracious  One,  we  thanks  and 

homage  pay. 
Who   guardeth   us.  and   guideth  us,  and   loveth   us 

alway ! 

"He  scatters  blessings  in  our  paths,   He  giveth  us 

increase, 
He  crowns  us  with  His  kindnesses,  and  granteth  us 

His  peace. 

"Unto  himself,  our  wandering  feet,  we  pray  that  He 

may  draw, 
And  may  we  strive,  with  faithful  hearts,  to  keep  His 

holy  law !  " 


14  BALLADS. 

His  simple  words  in  silence  died ;  a  moment's  hush, 
and  then 

From  all  the  listening  hearts  there  rose  a  solemn- 
voiced  Amen! 


ST.     NICHOLAS. 

IN  the  far-off  Polar  seas, 
Far  beyond  the  Hebrides, 
Where  the  icebergs,  towering  high, 
Seem  to  pierce  the  wintry  sky. 
And  the  fur-clad  Esquimaux 
Glides  in  sledges  o'er  the  snow, 
Dwells   St.   Nick,   the  merry  wight. 
Patron  saint  of  Christmas  night. 

Solid  walls  of  massive  ice, 
Bearing  many  a  quaint  device, 
Flanked  by  graceful  turrets  twain. 
Clear  as  clearest  porcelain, 
Bearing  at  a  lofty  height 
Christ's  pure  cross  in  simple  white. 

(15) 


16  BALLADS. 

Carven  with  surpassing  art 
From  an  iceberg's  crystal  heart. 

Here  St.  Nick,  in  royal  state, 
Dwells,  until  December  late 
Clips  the  days  at  either  end, 
And  the  nights  at  each  extend: 
Then,   with  his  attendant  sprites. 
Scours  the  earth  on  wintry  nights, 
Bringing  home,  in  well-filled  hands, 
Children's  gifts  from  many   lands. 

Here  are  whistles,  tops  and  toys. 
Meant  to  gladden  little  boys; 
Skates  and  sleds  that  soon  will  glide 
O'er  the  ice  or  steep  hill-side. 
Here  are  dolls  with  flaxen  curls, 
Sure  to  charm  the  little  girls; 
Christmas  books,  with  pictures  gay. 
For  this  welcome  holiday. 


ST.   NICHOLAS. 

In  the  court  the  reindeer  wait; 
Filled  the  sledge  with  costly  freight. 
As  the  first  faint  shadow  falls, 
Promptly  from  his  icy  halls 
Steps  St.   Nick,   and  grasps  the  rein: 
Straight  his  coursers  scour  the  plain, 
And  afar,  in  measured  time, 
Sounds  the  sleigh-bells'   silver  chime. 

Like  an  arrow  from  the  bow 
Speed  the  reindeer  o'er  the  snow. 
Onward!     Now  the  loaded  sleigh 
Skirts  the  shores  of  Hudson's  Bay. 
Onward,  till  the  stunted  tree 
Gains  a  loftier  majesty, 
And  the  curling  smoke-wreaths  rise 
Under  less  inclement  skies. 

Built  upon  a  hill-side  steep 
Lies  a  city  wrapt  in  sleep. 


17 


18  £  ALL  ADS. 

Up  and  down  the  lonely  street 
Sleepy  watchmen  pace  their  beat. 
Little  heeds  them  Santa  Glaus ; 
Not  for  him  are  human  laws. 
With  a  leap  he  leaves  the  ground, 
Scales  the  chimney  at  a  bound. 

Five  small  stockings  hang  below ; 
Five  small  stockings  in  a  row. 
From  his  pocket  blithe  St.  Nick 
Fills  the  waiting  stockings  quick ; 
Some  with  sweetmeats,  some  with  toys, 
Gifts  for  girls,  and  gifts  for  boys, 
Mounts  the  chimney  like  a  bird, 
And  the  bells  are  once  more  heard. 

Santa  Claus  !     Good  Christmas  saint, 
In  whose  heart  no  selfish  taint 
Findeth  place,  some  homes  there  be 
Where  no  stockings  wait  for  thee.  — 


ST.  NICHOLAS.  19 

Homes  where  sad  young  faces  wear 
Painful  marks  of  Want  and  Care, 
And  the   Christmas  morning  brings 
No  fair  hope  of  better  things. 

Can  you  not  some  crumbs  bestow 
On  these  children  steeped  in  woe ; 
Steal  a  single  look  of  care 
Which  their  sad  young  faces  wear; 
From  your  overflowing  store 
Give  to  them  whose  hearts  are  sore? 
No  sad  eyes  should  greet  the  morn 
When  the  infant  Christ  was  born. 


BARBARA'S     COURTSHIP. 

'Tis  just  three  months  and  eke  a  day, 
Since  in  the  meadows,  raking  hay. 
On  looking  up  I  chanced  to  see 
The  manor's  lord,  young  Arnold  Lee, 
With  a  Icose  hand  on  the  rein, 
Riding  slowly  down  the  lane. 
As  I  gazed  with  earnest  look 
On  his  face  as  on  a  book, 
As  if  conscious  of  the  gaze. 
Suddenly  he  turned  the  rays 
Of  his  brilliant  eyes  on  me. 
Then  I  looked  down  hastily, 
While  my  heart,  like  caged  bird, 
Fluttered  till  it  might  be  heard. 

Foolish,   foolish  Barbara ! 
(20) 


BARBARAS'  COURTSHIP.  21 

We  had  never  met  before. 
He  had  been  so  long  away. 
Visiting  some  foreign  shore. 
I  have  heard  my  father  say. 
What  in  truth  was  he  to  me, 
Rich  and  handsome  Arnold  Lee? 
Fate  had  placed  us  far  apart; 
Why,   then,  did  iny  restless  heart 
Flutter  when  his  careless  glance 
Fell  on  me  by  merest  chance  ? 
Foolish,   foolish  Barbara ! 

There  are  faces  —  are  there  not  ?  — 
That  can  never  be  forgot. 

o 

Looks  that  seen  but  once  impress 

With  peculiar  vividness. 

So  it  was  with  Arnold  Lee. 

Why  it  was  I  cannot  say 

That,   through  all  the  livelong  day, 

He  seemed  ever  near  to  me. 


22  BALLADS. 


While  I  raked,  as  in  a  dream. 
Xow   the  same  place  o'er  and  o'er, 
Till  my  little  sister  chid. 
And  with  full  eyes  opened  wide, 
Much  in  wonder,   gently  cried, 
"Why,   what  ails  thee,    Barbara?" 

I  am  in  the  fields  again  ; 
fTis  a  pleasant  day  in  June. 
All  the  songsters  are  in  tune, 
Pouring  out  their  matin  hymn. 
All  at  once  a  conscious  thrill 
Led  me.   half  against  my  Avill, 
To  look  up.     Abashed  I  see 
His  dark  eyes  full  fixed  on  me. 
What  he  said  I  do  not  know, 
But  his  voice  was  soft  and  low, 
As  he  spoke  in  careless  chat, 
Now  of  this  and  now  of  that. 
While  the  murmurous  waves  of  sound 


BARBARA'S   COURTS  HIP.  23 

Wafted  me  a  bliss  profound. 
Foolish,  foolish  Barbara ! 

Am  I  waking?     Scarce  I  know 
If  I  wake  or  if  I  dream, 
So  unreal  all  things  seem ; 
Yet  I  could  not  well  forego 

o 

This  sweet  dream,  if  dream  it  be, 
That  has  brought  such  joy  to  me. 
He  has  told  me  that  he  loves  me, — 
He  in  rank  so  far  above  me  ; 
And  when  I,   with  cheeks  aglow. 
Told  him  that  it  was  not  meet 
He  should  wed  with  one  so  low. 
Then  he  said,   in  accents  sweet, 
"Far  be  thoughts  of  rank  or  pelf; 
Dear,   I  love  thee  for  thyself!  " 
Happy,   happy  Barbara ! 


THE   CONFESSION. 

I  AM  glad  that  you   have  come, 

Arthur,  from  the  dusty  town; 
You  must  throw  aside  your  cares, 

And  relax  your  legal  frown. 
Coke  and  Littleton,  a  vaunt ! 

You  have  ruled  him  through  the  day; 
In  this  quiet,  sylvan  haunt, 

Be  content  to  yield  your  sway. 

It  is  pleasant,  is  it  not, 

Sitting  here  beneath  the  trees, 

While  the  restless  wind  above 
Ripples  over  leafy  seas? 

Often,  when  the  twilight  falls, 

In  the  shadow,  quite  alone. 

(24) 


TffK  CONFESSION.  '25 

I  have  sat  till  starlight  came. 

Listening  to   its  monotone. 
Yet  not   always  quite  alone, — 

Brother,  let  me  take  the  place 
Just  behind  you ;    now  the  moon 

Shines  no  longer  in  my  face. 

It  is  near  two  months  ago 

Since  I  met   him,   as  I  think, 
By  God's  mercy,   when  my  horse 

Trembled    on  the  river's  brink. 
I  had  fallen,   but  his  arm 

Firmly   seized  the  bridle-rein, 
And.   with   one  decided  grasp, 

Drew  me  back  to  life  again. 
I  was  grateful,   and  essayed 

Fitting  words  my  thanks  to  speak. 
Arthur,   when  the  heart  feels  most, 

Words,   I  think,   are  oftenest  weak. 


26  BALLADS. 

So  I  stammered  and  I  fear. 

What  I  said  had  little  grace 
But  I  knew  he  understood, 

By  the  smile  upon  his  face. 
There  are  faces  —  his  was  such  — 

That  are  sealed  when  in  repose ; 
Only  when  a  smile  floods  out, 

All  the  soul  in  beauty  glows. 
With  that  smile  I  grew  content, 

And  my  heart  grew  strangely  calm, 
As  with  trustful  step  I  walked. 

My  arm  resting  on  his  arm. 

Brothei*.  turn  your  face  away. 

So,  dear.  I  can  tell  you  best 
All  that,  followed ;  but -be  sure 

You  are  looking  to  the  west. 
Arthur.  I  have  seen  him  since, 

Nearly  every  day.  until 


THE  CONFESSION.  27 

If  I  lose  him,  all  my  life 

Would  grow  wan,  and  dark,  and  chill. 
Brother,  this  my  love  impute 

Not  to  me  for  maiden-shame: 
He  has  sought  me  for  his  wife. 

He  would  crown  me  with  his  name. 
Only  yesterday  he  said 

That  my  love  his  life  would  bless: 
Would  I  grant  it?     Arthur,  dear, 

Was  I  wrong  in  saying  <;Yes"? 


ROSE   IN   THE   GARDEN. 

THIRTY  years  have  come  and  gone. 

Melting  away  like  Southern  snows. 
Since,  in  the  light  of  a  summer's  night, 

I  went  to  the  garden  to  seek  my  Rose. 

Mine!     Do  you  hear  it,  silver  moon. 

Flooding  my  heart  with  your  mellow  shine? 
Mine !     Be  witness,  ye  distant  stars, 

Looking  on  me  with  eyes  divine ! 

Tell  me.  tell  me,  wandering  winds. 

Whisper  it,  if  you  may  not  speak  — 
Did  you  ever,  in  all  your  round, 

Fan  a  lovelier  brow  or  cheek? 

(28) 


IWSE  IN  THE  GARDE  F.  29 

Long  I  nursed  in  my  heart  the  love, 
Love  which  I  felt,  but  dared  not  tell, 

Till.  I  scarcely  know  how  or  when  — 

It  found  wild  words.  —  and  all  was  well ! 

I  can  hear  her  sweet  voice  even  now  — 
It  makes  my  pulses  leap  and  thrill  — 

':  I  owe  you  more  than  I  well  can  pay ; 
You  may  take  me,  Robert,  if  you  will ! " 

Days  passed.     One  pleasant  summer  night, 

I  paced  the  garden  walks  alone, 
Looking  about  with  restless  eyes, 

Wondering  whither  my  Rose  had  flown, 

Till,  from  a  leafy  arbor  near, 

There  came  to  my  ears  the  sound  of  speech. 
Who  can  be  with  my  Rose  to  night? 

Let  me  hide  me  under  the  beach. 


30  BALLADS. 

It  must  be  one  of  her  female  friends. 

Talking  with  her  in  the  gloaming  gray ; 
Perchance  —  I  thought  —  they  may  speak  of  me  : 

Let  me  listen  to  what  they  say. 

This  I  said  with  a  careless  smile, 

And  a  joyous  heart  that  was  free  from  fears; 
Little  I  dreamed  that  the  words  I  heard 

Would  weigh  on  my  heavy  heart  for  years. 

"  Rose,  my  Rose  !  for  your  heart  is  mine." 
I  heard  in  a  low  voice,  passion-fraught. 

"  In  the  sight  of  Heaven  we  are  truly  one ; 
Why  will  you  cast  me  away  for  naught  ? 

"  Will  you  give  your  hand  where  your  heart  goes  not, 
To  a  man  who  is  grave  and  stern  and  old : 

And  whose  love  compared  with  my  passion-heat, 
As  the  snow  of  the  frozen  North,  is  cold?" 


ROSE  IN  THE  GARDES.  31 

And  Rose  —  I  could  feel  her  cheek  grow  pale  — 
Her  voice  was  tremulous,  then  grew  strong  — 

'•Richard,"  she  said,   ''your  words  are  wild, 
And  you  do  my  guardian  hitter  wrong. 

"  Did  you  never  hear  how,  years  gone  by."  - 
She  spoke  in  a  tremulous  undertone  — 

"  Bereft  of  friends,  o'er  the  world's  highways, 
I  wandered  forth  as  a  child  alone? 

"He  opened  to  me  his  home  and  heart  — 
He  whom  you  call  so  stern  and  cold  — 

And  my  grateful  heart  I  may  well  bestow 
On  him  for  his  kindness  manifold." 

"  Rose,"  he  said,  in  a  saddened  tone, 

"I  thank  him  for  all  he  has  done  for  thee; 

He  has  acted  nobly  —  I  did  him  wrong  — 

But  is  there  no  voice  in  your  heart  for  me  ? " 


82  BALLADS. 

And  Rose  —  she  trembled  —  /  felt  it  all : 
I  heard  her  quick  breath  come  and  go: 

Her  voice  was  broken;  she  only  said, 
"  Have  pity,  Richard,  and  let  me  go ! '' 

And  then  —  Heaven  gave  me  strength,  I  think 
I  stood  before  them  calm  and  still ; 

You  might  have  thought  my  tranquil  breast 
Had  never  known  one  passion-thrill. 

And  they  alternate  flushed  and  paled; 

Rose  tottered,   and  I  feared  would  fall ; 
I  caught  her  in  supporting  arms. 

And  whispered,   "  Rose.  I  heard  it  all. 

"  I  had  a  dream,  but  it  is  passed, 

That  we  might  journey,  hand  in  hand 

Along  the  rugged  steeps  of  life. 

Until  we  reached  God's  promised  land. 


ROSE  IN  THE  GARDEN. 


li  This  was  my  dream ;  —  'tis  over  now :  - 
Thank  Heaven,  it  is  not  yet  too  late  ! 

I  pray  no  selfish  act  of  mine 

May  keep  two  young  hearts  separate." 

I  placed  her  passive  hand  in  his  — 
With  how  much  pain  God  only  knows 

And  blessing  him  for  her  sweet  sake, 
I  left  him  standing  with  my  Rose ! 


PH(EBE:S    WOOING. 

••PHCEBE!    Phoebe!     Where  is  the  chit? 

When  I  want  her  most  she's  out  of  the  way. 
Child,  you're  running  a  long  account 

Up,  to  be  squared  on  Judgment-day. 

"Where  have  you  been?  and  what  have  you  there?" 
"To  the  pasture  for  buttercups  wet  with  dew." 

"My  patience!  I  think  you  are  out  of  your  wits: 
I  wonder  what  good  will  buttercups  do? 

"There's  pennyroyal  you  might  have  got, — 
It  might  have  been  useful  to  you  or  me,  — 
But  I  never  heard,  in  all  my  life, 

Of  buttercup  cordial  or  buttercup  tea. 
(34) 


riT(EBE>S   WOOING.  35 

"I  want  you  to  stay  and  mind  the  bread, 
I've  just  put  two  loaves  in  the  oven  to  bake; 

When  they  are  done  take  them  carefully  out, 
And  put  in  their  place  this  loaf  of  cake, 

"While  I  run  over  to  Widow  Brown's; 

Her  son.  from  the  mines,  has  just  got  back. 
I  don't  believe  he's  a  cent  in  his  purse. 

Young  men  are  so  shiftless  now,  alack ! 

';It  was  very  different  when  I  was  young; 

Young  men  were  prudent,  and  girls  were  wise; 
You  wouldn't  catch  them  gadding  about 

Like  so  many  idle  butterflies." 

So  bustled  and  scolded  the  worthy  dame, 

Until  she  had  passed  the  outer  sill, 
To  do  her  justice,  it  seldom  chanced 

That  her  hands  were  idle,  or  tongue  was  still. 


36  SALLADS. 

So  Phoebe  gathered  her  knitting  up. 

And  sat  her  down  in  the  chimney  niche ; 

But  her  mind  Avas  on  other  thoughts  intent. 
And  here  and  there  she  dropped  a  stitch. 

The  yellow  kitten  purred  on  the  hearth. 

While  the  kitchen  clock,  with  its  frame  of  oak, 
In  the  corner  stood,  like  a  sentinel, 

And  challenged  time  with  its  measured  stroke. 

But  Phoebe's  mind  was  on  none  of  these : 

The  bread  in  the  oven,  her  good  aunt's  frown. 

And  the  scene  before  her  faded  away, 

And  blended  with  thoughts  of  Reuben  Brown : 

How  they  walked  together  on  summer  days, 
Or  bravely  faced  the  winter's  chill, 

And  chatted  merrily  all  the  way 

To  the  little  school-house  on  Sligo  Hill. 


PIKEBE^S   WOOING.  37 

How  both  grew  older,  and  school-days  passed. 

When  he  was  a  youth,  and  a  maiden  she; 
How  often  she  went  with  Reuben  Brown 

To  the  rustic  dance  or  the  social  bee. 

The  warm  flush  deepened  on  Phoebe's  cheek, 
And  she  breathed  a  low,  half-conscious  sigh; 

"Ah,  well-a-day!  they  were  happy  times, 
But  he  has  forgotten,  and  so  must  I." 

So  Phoebe  gathered  her  knitting  up, 

Which,  while  she  was  thinking,  had  fallen  down, 
When  her  quick  ear  caught  a  strange  footfall, 

And  there  in  the  doorway  stood  Reuben  Brown, 

WTith  the  same  frank,  handsome  face  she  knew, 
A  smile  as  bright,  and  an  eye  as  black  — 

"Phoebe,"  he  said,  "I  have  wandered  far; 
Are  you  glad  to  see  your  playmate  back?" 


38  BALLADS. 

The  kitten  still  purred  on  the  kitchen  hearth, 
And  the  ancient  clock,  with  its  frame  of  oak, 

In  the  corner  stood,  like  a  sentinel, 

And  challenged  time  with  its  measured  stroke. 

A  pleased  light  shone  in  the  maiden's  eyes  ; 

Ah,  love,  young  love,  it  is  very  sweet ! 
Reuben  had  gone,  but  she  sat  quite  still, 

And  the  knitting  lay  untouched  at  her  feet. 

Just  then  the  dame  came  bustling  in, 

And  went  to  the  oven  without  ado. 
"  Why,  Phoebe,  child,  what  have  you  done? 

The  bread  is  baked  as  black  as  my  shoe  !  *' 

And  Phoebe  started,  and  blushed  for  shame. 

Took  up  her  knitting  and  dropped  it  down  ; 
And  when  her  aunt  said,   "What  ails  you,  child? 

She  hastily  answered,  "  Reuben  Brown." 


PH(EBE'S   WOOING.  39 

Ah,  love  !    young  love !    it  is  very  sweet, 
In  field,  or  hamlet,  or  crowded  mart ; 
But  it  burns  with  the  brightest,  purest  flame 
*  In  the  hidden  depths  of  a  young  maid's  heart. 


THE    LOST    HEART. 

OXE  golden  summer  day, 
Along  the  forest-way, 
Young  Colin  passed  with  blithesome  steps  alert. 

His  locks  with  careless  grace 
Rimmed  round  his  handsome  face 
And  drifted  outward  on  the  airy  surge. 

So  blithe  of  heart  was  he, 
He  hummed  a  melody, 
And  all  the  birds  were  hushed  to  hear  him  sing. 

Across  his  shoulders  flung 
His  bow  and  baldric  hung : 

So,  in  true  huntsman's  guise,  he  threads  the  wood. 

(40) 


TUE  LOST  HEART.  41 

The  sun  mounts  up  the  sky, 
The  air  moves  sluggishly, 
And  reeks  with  summer  heat  in  every  pore. 

His  limbs  begin  to  tire, 
Slumbers  his  youthful  fire  ; 
He  sinks  upon  a  violet-bed  to  rest. 

The  soft  winds  go  and  come 
With  low  and  drowsy  hum, 
And  ope  for  him  the  ivory  gate  of  dreams. 

Beneath  the  forest-shade 
There  trips  a  woodland  maid, 
And  marks  with  startled  eye  the  sleeping  youth. 

At  first  she  thought  to  fly, 
Then,  timid,  drawing  nigh, 
She  gazed  in  wonder  on  his  fair  young  face. 


42  BALLADS. 

When  swiftly  stooping  down 
Upon  his  locks  so  brown 
She  lightly  pressed  her  lips,  and  blushing  fled. 

When  Colin  woke  from  sleep. 
From  slumbers  calm  and  deep, 
He  felt  —  he  knew  not  how  —  his  heart  had  flown. 

And  so,  with  anxious  care. 
He  wandered  here  and  there, 
But  could  not  find  his  lost  heart  anywhere. 

Then  he,  with  air  distraught, 
And  brow  of  anxious  thought, 
Went  out  into  the  world  beyond  the  wood. 

Of  each  that  passed  him  by, 
He  queried  anxiously, 
"I  prithee,  hast  thou  seen  a  heart  astray?" 


THE  LOST  HEART.  48 

Some  stai-ed  and  hurried  on, 
While  others  said  in  scorn, 
'•  Your  heart  has  gone  in  search  of  your  lost  wits." 

The  day  is  wearing  fast, 
Young  Colin  comes  at  last 
To  where  a  cottage  stood  embowered  in  trees. 

He  looks  within,  and  there 
He  sees  a  maiden  fair, 
Who  sings  low  songs  the  while  she  plies  her  wheel. 

"  I  prithee,  maiden  bright," 
She  turns  as  quick  as  light, 
And  straight  a  warm  flush  crimsons  all  her  face. 

She,  much  abashed,  looks  down, 
For  on  his  locks  so  brown 
She  seems  to  see  the  marks  her  lips  have  made. 


44  BALLADS. 

Whereby  she  stands  confest; 
What  need  to  tell  the  rest? 
He  said.  "  I  think,  fair  maid,  you  have  my  heart. 

"  Nay,  do  not  give  it  back, 
I  shall  not  feel  the  lack, 
If  thou  wilt  give  to  me  thine  own  therefor.'' 


JOHN   MAYNARD. 

'TWAS  on  Lake  Erie's  broad  expanse 

One  bright  midsummer  day. 
The  gallant  steamer  Ocean  Queen 

Swept  proudly  on  her  way. 
Bright  faces  clustered  on  the  deck, 

Or,  leaning  o'er  the  side, 
Watched  carelessly  the  feathery  foam 

That  necked  the  rippling  tide. 

Ah.  who  beneath  that  cloudless  sky, 

That  smiling  bends  serene. 
Could  dream  that  danger  awful,  vast. 

Impended  o'er  the  scene,  — 
Could  dream  that  ere  an  hour  had  sped 

That  frame  of  sturdy  oak 
(45) 


46  BALLADS. 

Would  sink  beneath  the  lake's  blue  waves. 
Blackened  with  fire  and  smoke? 

A  seaman  sought  the  captain's  side, 

A  moment  whispered  low ; 
The  captain's  swarthy  face  grew  pale; 

He  hurried  down  below. 
Alas,  too  late  !    Though  quick,  and  sharp, 

And  clear  his  orders  came, 
No  human  efforts  could  avail 

To  quench  th'  insidious  flame. 

The  bad  news  quickly  reached  the  deck, 

It  sped  from  lip  to  lip, 
And  ghastly  faces  everywhere 

Looked  from  the  doomed  ship. 
"Is  there  no  hope  —  no  chance  of  life?'' 

A  hundred  lips  implore, 
"  But  one,"  the  captain  made  reply,  — 

<:To  run  the  ship  on  shore." 


JOHN  MA  YNARD.  47 

A  sailor,  whose  heroic  soul 

That  hour  should  yet  reveal, 
By  name  John  Maynard,  eastern-born, 

Stood  calmly  at  the  wheel. 
':Head  her  south-east!"  the  captain  shouts, 

Above  the  smothered  roar. — 
"  Head  her  south-east  without  delay  ! 

Make  for  the  nearest  shore !  " 

No  teiTor  pales  the  helmsman's  cheek, 

Or  clouds  his  dauntless  eye. 
As,  in  a  sailor's  measured  tone, 

His  voice  responds,  "  Ay  !  ay  !  " 
Three  hundred  souls,  the  steamer's  freight, 

Crowd  forward  wild  with  fear. 
While  at  the  stern  the  dreaded  flames 

Above  the  deck  appear. 

John  Maynard  watched  the  nearing  flames, 
But  still  with  steady  hand 


48  BALLADS. 

He  grasped  the  wheel,  and  steadfastly 

He  steered  the  ship  to  land. 
"John  Maynard,  can  you  still  hold  out?  '' 

He  heard  the  captain  cry ; 
A  voice  from  out  the  stifling  smoke 

Faintly  responds.   "  Ay  !  ay  !  " 

But  half  a  mile  !  a  hundred  hands 

Stretch,  eagerly  to  shore. 
But  half  a  mile  !     That  distance  sped 

Peril  shall  all  be  o'er. 
But  half  a  mile  !     Yet  stay,  the  flames 

No  longer  slowly  creep, 
But  gather  round  that  helmsman  bold. 

With  fierce,  impetuous  sweep. 

"John  Maynard!"  with  an  anxious  voice 

The  captain  cries  once  more, 
"Stand  by  the  wheel  five  minutes  yet, 

And  we  shall  reach  the  shore.'' 


JOHN  MA  YNARD.  49 

Through  flame  and  smoke  that  dauntless  heart 

Responded  firmly  still, 
Unawed,  though  face  to  face  with  death,  — 

"With  God's  good  help  I  will!" 

The  flames  approach  with  giant  strides, 

They  scorch  his  hand  and  brow; 
One  arm,  disabled,  seeks  his  side, 

Ah  !  he  is  conquered  now  ! 
But  no,  his  teeth  are  firmly  set, 

He  crushes  down  his  pain. 
His  knee  upon  the  stanchion  pressed, 

He  guides  the  ship  again. 

One  moment  yet !  one  moment  yet  ! 

Brave  heart,  thy  task  is  o'er, 
The  pebbles  grate  beneath  the  keel, 

The  steamer  touches  shore. 
Three  hundred  grateful  voices  rise 

In  praise  to  God  that  he 


50  BALLADS. 

Hath  saved  them  from  the  fearful  fire. 
And  from  the  engulphing  sea. 

But  where  is  he,  that  helmsman  bold? 

The  captain  saw  him  reel,  — 
His  nerveless  hands  released  their  task. 

He  sank  beside  the  wheel. 
The  wave  received  his  lifeless  corse, 

Blackened  with  smoke  and  fire. 
God  rest  him  !     Never  hero  had 

A  nobler  funeral  pyre  ! 


FRIAR  ANSELMO. 

FRIAR  ANSELMO  (God's  grace  may  he  win!) 
Committed  one  sad  day  a  deadly  sin; 

Which  being  done  he  drew  back,  self-abhorred, 
From  the  rebuking  presence  of  the  Lord, 

And,  kneeling  down,  besought,  with  bitter  cry, 
Since  life  was  worthless  grown,  that  he  might  die. 

All  night  he  knelt,  and,  when  the  morning  broke, 

In  patience  still  he  waits  death's  fatal  stroke. 
(61) 


52  SAL  LADS. 

When  all  at  once  a  cry  of  sharp  distress 
Aroused  Anselmo  from  his  wretchedness: 


And.  looking  from  the  convent  window  high, 
He  saw  a  wounded  traveller  gasping  lie 

Just  underneath,  who,  bruised  and  stricken  sore, 
Had  crawled  for  aid  unto  the  convent  door. 

The  friar's  heart  with  deep  compassion  stirred, 
When  the  poor  wretch's  groans  for  help  were  heard 

With  gentle  hands,  and  touched  with  love  divine, 
He  bathed  his  wounds,  and  poured  in  oil  and  Avine. 

With  tender  foresight  cared  for  all  his  needs,— 
A  blessed  ministry  of  noble  deeds. 


FRIAR  AXSELJfO.  53 

In  such  devotion  passed  seven  days.     At  length 
The  poor  wayfarer  gained  his  wonted  strength. 

With  grateful  thanks  he  left  the  convent  walls, 
And  once  again  on  death  Anselmo  calls. 

When,  lo !   his  cell  was  filled  with  sudden   light, 
And  on  the  wall  he  saw  an  angel  write, 

(An  angel  in  whose  likeness  he  could  trace, 
More  noble  grown,  the  traveller's  form  and  face), 

"Courage,  Anselmo,  though  thy  sin  be  great, 
God  grants  thee  life  that  thou  may'st  expiate. 

"Thy  guilty  stains  shall  be  washed  white  again, 
By  noble  service  done  thy  fellow-men. 


54  BALLADS. 

"His  soul  draws  nearest  unto  God  above, 
Who  to  his  brother  ministers  in  love." 

Meekly  Anselmo  rose,  and,  after  prayer, 
His  soul  was  lightened  of  its  past  despair. 

Henceforth  he  strove,  obeying  God's  high  will, 
His  heaven-appointed  mission  to  fulfil. 

And  many  a  soul,  oppressed  with  pain  and  grief, 
Owed  to  the  friar  solace  and  relief. 


MISCELLANEOUS   POEMS. 


MISCELLANEOUS    POEMS. 


IN    THE    CHURCH    AT     STRATFORD-ON- 
AVON. 

ONE  autumn  day,  when  hedges  yet  were  green, 
And  thick-branched  trees  diffused  a  leafy  gloom, 

Hard  by  where  Avon  rolls  its  silvery  tide, 

I  stood  in  silent  thought  by  Shakspeare's  tomb. 

0  happy  church,  beneath  whose  marble  floor 
His  ashes  lie  who  so  enriched  mankind; 

The  many-sided  Shakspeare,  rare  of  soul, 
And  dowered  with  an  all-embracing  mind. 

Through   the  stained  windows  rays  of  sunshine  fall 

In  softened  glory  on  the  chancel  floor; 

(57; 


58  MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 

While  I,  a  pilgrim  from  across  the  sea, 
Stand  with  bare  head  in  reverential  awe. 

Churches  there  are  within  whose  gloomy  vaults 
Repos'e  the  bones  of  those  that  once  were  kings; 

Their  power  has  passed,  and  what  remains  but  clay? 
While  in  his  grave  our  Shakspeare  lives  and  sings. 

Kings  were  his  puppets,  kingdoms  but  his  stage.  — 
Faint  shadows  they  without  his  plastic  art.  — 

He  waves  his  wand,  and  lo!   they  live  again. 
And  in  his  world  perform  their  mimic  part. 

Born  in  the  purple,  his  imperial  soul 

Sits  crowned  and  sceptred  in  the  realms  of  mind. 
Kingdoms  may  fall,  and  crumble  to  decay, 

Time  but  confirms  his  empire  o'er  mankind. 


MRS.  BROWNING'S  GRAVE  AT  FLORENCE. 

FLORENCE  wears  an  added  grace, 
All  her  earlier  honors  crowning; 

Dante's  birthplace,  Art's  fair  home, 
Holds  the  dust  of  Barrett  Browning. 

Guardian  of  the  noble  dead 

That  beneath  thy  soil  lie  sleeping, 

England,  with  full  heart,  commends 
This  new  treasure  to  thy  keeping. 

Take  her,  she  is  half  thine  own; 

In  her  verses'  rich  outpouring, 
Breathes  the  warm  Italian  heart, 

Yearning  for  the  land's  restoring. 


60  MISCELLANEOUS  POE3IS. 

From  thy  skies  her  poet-heart 
Caught  a  fresher  inspiration. 

And  her  soul  obtained  new  strength, 
With  her  bodily  translation. 

Freely  take  Avhat  thou  hast  given, 
Less  her  verses'  rhythmic  beauty, 

Than  the  stirring  notes  that  called 
Trumpet-like  thy  sons  to  duty. 

Rarest  of  exotic  flowers 

In  thy  native  chaplet  twining, 

To  the  temple  of  thy  great 

Add  her — she  is  worth  enshrining:. 


MY    CASTLE. 

« 

I  HAVE  a  beautiful  castle, 

With  towers  and  battlements  fair ; 

And  many  a  banner,  with  gay  device, 
Floats  in  the  outer  air. 

The  walls  are  of  solid  silver; 

The  towers  are  of  massive  gold; 
And  the  lights  that  stream  from  the  windows 

A  royal  scene  unfold. 

Ah  !  could  you  but  enter  my  castle 

With  its  pomp  of  regal  sheen, 
You  would  say  that  it  far  surpasses 

The  palace  of  Aladeen. 
(61) 


62  MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 

Could  you  but  enter  as  I  do. 

And  pace  through  the  vaulted  hall, 
And  mark  the  stately  columns, 

And  the  pictures  on  the  wall ; 

With  the  costly  gems  about  them, 
That  send  their  light  afar. 

With  a  chaste  and  softened  splendor 
Like  the  light  of  a  distant  star  ! 

And  where  is  this  wonderful  castle, 
With  its  rich  emblazonings, 

Whose  pomp  so  far  surpasses 

The  homes  of  the  greatest  kings  ? 

Come  out  with  me  at  morning 
And  lie  in  the  meadow-grass, 

And  lift  your  eyes  to  the  ether  blue. 
And  you  will  see  it  pass. 


MY  CASTLE.  63 

There  !  can  you  not  see  the  battlements ; 

And  the  turrets  stately  and  high, 
Whose  lofty  summits  are  tipped  with  clouds, 

And  lost  in  the  arching  sky  ? 

Dear  friend,  you  are  only  dreaming, 

Your  castle  so  stately  and  fair 
Is  only  a  fanciful  structure,  — 

A  castle  in  the  air. 

Perchance  you  are  right.     I  know  not 

If  a  phantom  it  may  be ; 
But  yet,  in  my  inmost  heart,  I  feel 

That  it  lives,  and  lives  for  me. 

For  when  clouds  and  darkness  are  round  me, 
And  my  heart  is  heavy  with  care, 

I  steal  me  away  from  the  noisy  crowd, 
To  dwell  in  my  castle  fair. 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 

There  are  servants  to  do  my  bidding ; 

There  are  servants  to  heed  my  call ; 
And  I,  with  a  master's  air  of  pride, 

May  pace  through  the  vaulted  hall. 

And  I  envy  not  the  monarchs 

With  cities  under  their  sway ; 
For  am  I  not,   in  my  own  right, 

A  monarch  as  proud  as  they? 

What  matter,  then,  if  to  others 

My  castle  a  phantom  may  be, 
Since  I  feel,  in  the  depths  of  my  own  heart, 

That  it  is  not  so  to  me? 


APPLE-BLOSSOMS. 

I  SIT  in  the  shadow  of  apple-boughs, 

In  the  fragrant  orchard  close. 
And  around  me  floats  the  scented  air, 

With  its  wave-like  tidal  flows. 
I  close  my  eyes  in  a  dreamy  bliss, 

And  call  no  king  my  peer; 
For  is  not  this  the  rare,  sweet  time, 

The  blossoming  time  of  the  year? 

I  lie  on  a  couch  of  downy  grass, 
With  delicate  blossoms  strewn. 

And  I  feel  the  throb  of  Nature's  heart 
Responsive  to  my  own. 

Oh,  the  world  is  fair,  and  God  is  good, 

That  maketh  life  so  dear; 

(65) 


66  MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 

For  is  not  this  the  rare,  sweet  time, 
The  blossoming  time  of  the  year? 

I  can  see,  through  the  rifts  of  the  apple-boughs. 

The  delicate  blue  of  the  sky, 
And  the  changing  clouds  with  their  marvellous  tints 

That  drift  so  lazily  by. 
And  strange,  sweet  thoughts  sing  through  my  brain, 

And  Heaven,  it  seemeth  near ; 
Oh,  is  it  not  a  rare,  sweet  time, 

The  blossoming  time  of  the  year? 


SUMMER  HOURS. 

IT  is  the  year's  high  noon. 

The  earth  sweet  incense  yields, 
And  o'er  the  fresh,  green  fields 

Bends  the  clear  sky  of  June. 

I  leave  the  crowded  streets, 
The  hum  of  busy  life, 
Its  clamor  and  its  strife. 

To  breathe  thy  perfumed  sweets. 

0  rare  and  golden  hours ! 
The  bird's  melodious  song, 
Wavelike,  is  borne  along 

Upon  a  strand  of  flowers. 
(67) 


68  MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 

I  wander  far  away, 

Where,  through  the  forest  trees, 
Sports  the  cool  summer  breeze, 

In  wild  and  wanton  play. 

A  patriarchal  elm 

Its  stately  form  uprears, 
Which  twice  a  hundred  years 

Has  ruled  this  woodland  realm. 

I  sit  beneath  its  shade, 

And  watch,  with  careless  eye, 
The  brook  that  babbles  by, 

And  cools  the  leafy  glade. 

In  truth  I  wonder  not 
That  in  the  ancient  days 
The  temples  of  God's  praise 

Were  grove  and  leafy  grot. 


SUMMER  HOURS.  69 

The  noblest  ever  planned, 

With  quaint  device  and  rare. 

By  man,  can  ill  compare 
With  these  from  God's  oAvn  hand. 

Pilgrim  with  way-worn  feet, 
Who,  treading  life's  dull  round, 
No  true  repose  hast  found, 

Come  to  this  green  retreat. 

For  bird,  and  flower,  and  tree, 
Green  fields,  and  woodland  wild, 
Shall  bear,  with  voices  mild, 

Sweet  messages  to  thee. 


JUNE. 

THROW  open  wide  your  golden  gates, 

0  poet-lauded  month  of  June, 
And  waft  me,  on  your  spicy  breath, 

The  melody  of  birds  in  tune. 

0  fairest  palace  of  the  three, 

Wherein  Queen  Summer  holdeth  sway, 

1  gaze  upon  your  leafy  courts 
From  out  the  vestibule  of  May. 

I  fain  would  tread  your  garden  walks. 

Or  in  your  shady  bowers  recline; 
Then  open  wide  your  golden  gates, 

And  make  them  mine,  and  make  them  mine. 
(70) 


LITTLE    CHARLIE. 

A  VIOLET  grew  by  the  river-side, 

And  gladdened  all  hearts  with  its  bloom ; 
While  over  the  fields,  on  the  scented  air, 

It  breathed  a  rich  perfume. 
But  the  clouds  grew  dark  in  the  angry  sky, 

And  its  portals  were  opened  wide ; 
And  the  heavy  rain  beat  down  the  flower 

That  grew  by  the  river-side. 

Not  far  away  in  a  pleasant  home, 

There  lived  a  little  boy, 
Whose  cheerful  face  and  childish  grace 

Filled  every  heart  with  joy. 
He  wandered  one  day  to  the  river's  verge, 

With  no  one  near  to  save ; 

(71) 


72  MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 

And  the  heart  that  we  loved  with  a  boundless  love 
Was  stilled  in  the  restless  wave. 

The  s"ky  grew  dark  to  our  tearful  eyes, 

And  we  bade  farewell  to  joy  ; 
For  our  hearts  were  bound  bj  a  sorrowful  tie 

To  the  grave  of  the  little  boy. 
The  birds  still  sing  in  the  leafy  tree 

That  shadows  the  open  door ; 
We  heed  them  not,  for  we  think  of  the  voice 

That  we  shall  hear  no  more. 

We  think  of  him  at  eventide, 

And  gaze  on  his  vacant  chair 
With  a  longing  heart  that  will  scarce  believe 

That  Charlie  is  not  there. 
We  seem  to  hear  his  ringing  laugh, 

And  his  bounding  step  at  the  door; 
But,  alas  !  there  comes  the  sorrowful  thought, 

We  shall  never  hear  them  more ! 


LITTLE  CHARLIE.  73 

We  shall  walk  sometimes  to  his  little  grave, 

In  the  pleasant  summer  hours ; 
We  will  speak  his  name  in  a  softened  voice, 

And  cover  his  grave  with  flowers ; 
We  will  think  of  him  in  his  heavenly  home,  — 

In  his  heavenly  home  so  fair ; 
And  we  will  trust  with  a  hopeful  trust 

That  we  shall  meet  him  there. 


THE  WHIPPOORWILL  AND  I. 

IN    the    hushed    hours    of    night,  when    the    air   is 

quite  still, 

I  hear  the  strange  cry  of  the  lone  whippoorwill, 
Who  chants,  without  ceasing,  that  wonderful  trill, 
Of  which  the  sole  burden  is  still,  "Whip-poor- Will." 

And  why  should  I  whip  him  ?     Strange  visitant,  say, 
Has  he  been  playing  truant  this  long  summer  day? 
I  listened  a  moment;    more  clear  and  more  shrill 
Rang   the   voice  of  the  bird,  as  he  cried,  "Whip- 
poor- Will." 

But  what  has  poor  Will  done  ?  I  ask  you  once  more ; 

I'll  whip  him.  don't  fear,  if  you'll  tell  me  what  for. 

(74) 


THE   WIIIPPOORWTLL  AND  7,  75 

I  paused  for  an  answer;    o'er  valley  and  hill 
Rang    the   voice  of  the   bird,  as    he  cried,  {:  Whip- 
poor-  Will.' ; 

Has  he  come  to  jour  dwelling,  by  night  or  by  day. 
And    snatched    the    young   birds    from   their   warm 

nest  away? 

I  paused  for  an  answer;    o'er  valley  and  hill 
Rang   the   voice  of  the  bird,  as  he  cried,  "Whip- 

poor-Will." 

Well,  well,  I  can  hear  you,  don't  have  any  fears, 
I  can  hear  what  is  constantly  dinned  in  my  ears. 
The  obstinate  bird,  with  his  wonderful  trill, 
Still  made  but  one  answer,  and  that,  "  Whip-poo r- 
Wffl." 

But  what  has  poor  Will  done?    I  prithee  explain; 
I'm  out  of  all  patience,  don't  mock  me  again. 


76  MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 

The  obstinate  bird,  with  his  wonderful  trill, 
Still  made  the  same  answer,  and  that,  "Whip-poor- 
Will." 

Well,  have  your  own  way,  then;    but  if  you  won't 

tell, 

I'll  shut  down  the  window,  and  bid  you  farewell; 
But  of  one  thing  be  sure,  /  won't  whip  him  until 
You  give  me  some  reason  for  whipping  poor  Will. 

I  listened  a  moment,  as  if  for  reply, 
But  nothing  was  heard  but  the  bird's  mocking  cry. 
I  caught  the  faint  echo  from  valley  and  hill; 
It   breathed  the  same  burden,  that  strange  "Whip- 
poor-Will." 


CARVING   A   NAME. 

I  WROTE  my  name  upon  the  sand. 

And  trusted  it  would  stand  for  aye; 
But.  soon,  alas !    the  refluent  sea 

Had  washed  my  feeble  lines  away. 

I  carved  my  name  upon  the  wood, 
And,  after  years,  returned  again; 

I  missed  the  shadow  of  the  tree 

That  stretched  of  old  upon  the  plain. 

To  solid  marble  next,  my  name 
I  gave  as  a  perpetual  trust: 
An  earthquake  rent  it  to  its  base. 

And  now  it  lies,  o'erlaid  with  dust. 
(77) 


78  MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 

All  these  have  failed.     In  wiser  mood 
I  turn  and  ask  myself,  "What  then?" 

If  I  would  have  my  name  endure. 
I'll  write  it  on  the  hearts  of  men. 

In  characters  of  living  light, 

Of  kindly  deeds  and  actions  wrought. 

And  these,  beyond  the  touch  of  time, 
Shall  live  immortal  as  my  thought. 


IN    TIME    OF    WAR. 


IN    TIME    OF    WAE 


GONE  TO  THE  WAR. 

MY  Charlie  has  gone  to  the  war,  — 
My  Charlie  so  brave  and  tall; 

He  left  his  plough  in  the  furrow, 
And  flew  at  his  country's  call. 

May  God  in  safety  keep  him, — 
My  precious  boy  —  my  all! 

My  heart  is  pining  to  see  him; 

I  miss  him  every  day; 
My  heart  is  weary  with  waiting, 

And  sick  of  the  long  delay,  — 
But  I  know  his  country  needs  him, 

And  I  could  not  bid  him  stay,. 
(81) 


82  IX  TIME  OF  WAR. 

I  remember  how  his  face  flushed, 

And  how  his  color  came, 
When  the  flash  from  the  guns  of  Sumter 

Lit  the  whole  land  with  flame, 
And  darkened  our  country's  banner 

With  the  crimson  hue  of  shame. 

"Mother,"  he  said,  then  faltered, — 

I  felt  his  mute  appeal; 
I  paused  —  if  you  are  a  mother, 

You  know  what  mothers  feel, 
When  called  to  yield  their  dear  ones 

To  the  cruel  bullet  and  steel. 

My  heart  stood  still  for  a  moment, 
Struck  with  a  mighty  woe; 

A  faint  as  of  death  came  o'er  me, — 
I  am  a  mother,  you  know,  — 

But  I  sternly  checked  my  weakness, 
And  firmly  bade  him  "Go." 


GONE  TO   THE  WAR.  83 

Wherever  the  fight  is  fiercest 

I  know  that  my  boy  will  be; 
Wherever  the  need  is  sorest 

Of  the  stout  arms  of  the  free. 
May  he  prove  as  true  to  his  country 

As  he  has  been  true  to  me. 

My  home  is  lonely  without  him, 

My  hearth  bereft  of  joy, 
The  thought  of  him  who  has  left  me 

My  constant  sad  employ; 
But  God  has  been  good  to  the  mother, — 

She  shall  not  blush  for  her  boy. 


WHERE   IS   MY   BOY   TO-NIGHT? 

WHEN  the  clouds  in  the  Western  sky 

Flush  red  with  the  setting  sun,  — 
When  the  veil  of  twilight  falls, 

And  the  busy  day  is  done,  — 
I  sit  and  watch  the  clouds, 

With  their  crimson  hues  alight, 
And  ponder  with  anxious  heart, 

Oh,  where  is  my  boy  to-night? 

It  is  just  a  year  to-day 

Since  he  bade  me  a  gay  good-by, 
To  march  where  banners  float, 

And  the  deadly  missiles  fly. 
As  I  marked  his  martial  step 

I  felt  my  color  rise 
C84) 


WHERE  IS  MY  BOY  TO-NIGHT!  85 

With  all  a  mother's  pride, 

And  my  heart  was  in  my  eyes. 

There's  a  little  room  close  by, 

Where  I  often  used  to  creep 
In  the  hush  of  the  summer  night 

To  watch  my  boy  asleep. 
But  he  who  used  to  rest 

Beneath  the  spread  so  white 
Is  far  away  from  me  now,  — 

Oh,  where  is  my  boy  to-night? 

Perchance  in  the  gathering  night, 

With  slow  and  weary  feet, 
By  the  light  of  Southern  stars, 

He  paces  his  lonely  beat. 
Does  he  think  of  the  mother's  heart 

That  will  never  cease  to  yearn, 
As  only  a  mother's  can, 

For  her  absent  boy's  return? 


86  71V  TIME  OF  WAR. 

% 

Oh,  where  is  my  boy  to-night? 

I  cannot  answer  where, 
But  I  know,  wherever  he  is, 

He  is  under  our  Father's  care. 
May  He  guard,  and  guide,  and  bless 

My  boy,  wherever  he  be, 
And  bring  him  back  at  length 

To  bless  and  to  comfort  me. 

May  God  bless  all  our  boys 

By  the  camp-fire's  ruddy  glow, 
Or  when  in  the  deadly  fight 

They  front  the  embattled  foe; 
And  comfort  each  mother's  heart, 

As  she  sits  in  the  fading  light, 
And  ponders  with  anxious  heart  — 

Oh,   where  is  my  boy  to-night? 


A     SOLDIER'S     VALENTINE. 

JUST  from  the  sentry's  tramp 

(I  must  take  it  again  at  ten), 
I  have  laid  my  musket  down, 

And  seized  instead  my  pen; 
For,  pacing  my  lonely  round 

In  the  chilly  twilight  gray, 
The  thought,  dear  Mary,  came, 

That  this  is  St.  Valentine's  Day. 

And  with  the  thought  there  came 
A  glimpse  of  the  happy  time 

When  a  school-boy's  first  attempt 
I  sent  you,  in  borrowed  rhyme, 

On  a  gilt-edged  sheet,  embossed 

With  many  a  quaint  design, 

(37) 


88  I1T  TIME  OF  WAR. 

And  signed,  in  school-boy  hand, 
"Your  loving  Valentine." 

The  years  have  come  and  gone,  — 

Have  flown,  I  know  not  where,  — 
And  the  school-boy's  merry  face 

Is  grave  with  manhood's  care  ; 
But  the  heart  of  the  man  still  beats 

At  the  well-remembered  name, 
And  on  this  St.  Valentine's  Day 

His  choice  is  still  the  same. 

There  was  a  time  —  ah,  well ! 

Think  not  that  I  repine  — 
When  I  dreamed  this  happy  day 

Would  smile  on  you  as  mine; 
But  I  heard  my  country's  call; 

I  knew  her  need  was  sore. 
Thank  God,  no  selfish  thought 

Withheld  me  from  the  war. 


A  SOLDIER'S   VALENTINE.  89 

But  when  the  dear  old  flag 

Shall  float  in  its  ancient  pride,  — 
When  the  twain  shall  be  made  one, 

And  feuds  no  more  divide,  — 
I  will  lay  my  musket  down, 

My  martial  garb  resign, 
And  turn  my  joyous  feet 

Toward  home  and  Valentine. 


LAST    WORDS. 

"  DEAR  Charlie,"  breathed  a  soldier, 

"  0  comrade  true  and  tried. 
Who  in  the  heat  of  battle 

Pressed  closely  to  my  side; 
I  feel  that  I  am  stricken, 

My  life  is  ebbing  fast ; 
I  fain  would  have  you  with  me, 

Dear  Charlie,  till  the  last. 

"  It  seems  so  sudden,  Charlie, 

To  think  to-morrow's  sun 
Will  look  upon  me  lifeless. 

And  I  not  twenty-one ! 
(90) 


LAST  WORDS.  91 

I  little  dreamed  this  morning, 
'T would  bring  my  last  campaign ; 

God's  ways  are  not  as  our  ways, 
And  I  will  not  complain. 

"There's  one  at  home,  dear  Charlie, 

Will  mourn  for  me  when  dead, 
Whose  heart — it  is  a  mother's  — 

Can  scarce  be  comforted. 
You'll  write  and  tell  her,  Charlie, 

With  my  dear  love,  that  I 
Fought  bravely  as  a  soldier  should, 

And  died  as  he  should  die. 

"  And  you  will  tell  her,  Charlie, 
She  must  not  grieve  too  much, 

Our  country  claims  our  young  lives, 
For  she  has  need  of  such. 

And  where  is  he  would  falter, 
Or  turn  ignobly  back, 


92  IN  TIME  OF  WAR. 

When  Duty's  voice  cries  '  Forward.' 
And  Honor  lights  the  track? 

"  And  there's  another,  Charlie 

(His  voice  became  more  low). 
When  thoughts  of  her  come  o'er  me, 

It  makes  it  hard  to  go. 
This  locket  in  my  bosom, 

She  gave  me  just  before 
I  left  my  native  village 

For  the  fearful  scenes  of  war. 

"  Give  her  this  message,  Charlie, 

Sent  with  my  dying  breath, 
To  her  and  to  my  banner 

I'm  '  faithful  unto  death.' 
And  if,  in  that  far  country  . 

Which  I  am  going  to, 
Our  earthly  ties  may  enter, 

I'll  there  my  love  renew. 


LAST  WORDS.  93 

"  Come  nearer,  closer,  Charlie, 

My  head  I  fain  would  rest, 
It  must  be  for  the  last  time, 

Upon  jour  faithful  breast. 
Dear  friend,  I  cannot  tell  you 

How  in  my  heart  I  feel 
The  depth  of  your  devotion, 

Your  friendship  strong  as  steel. 

"We've  watched  and  camped  together 

In  sunshine  and  in  rain  ; 
We've  shared  the  toils  and  perils 

Of  more  than  one  compaign ; 
And  when  my  tired  feet  faltered, 

Beneath  the  noontide  heat, 
Your  words  sustained  my  courage, 

Gave  new  strength  to  my  feet. 

"And  once,  —  'twas  at  Antietam,— 
Pressed  hard  by  thronging  foes, 


94  IN  TIME  OF   WAR. 

I  almost  sank  exhausted 

Beneath  their  cruel  blows,  — 

When  you,  dear  friend,  undaunted, 
With  headlong  courage  threw 

Your  heart  into  the  contest, 

And  safelj  brought  me  through. 

"My  words  are  weak,  dear  Charlie, 

My  breath  is  growing  scant ; 
Your  hand  upon  my  heart  —  there, 

Can  you  not  hear  me  pant? 
Your  thoughts  I  know  will  wander 

Sometimes  to  where  I  lie  — 
How  dark  it  grows  !  True  comrade 

And  faithful  friend,  good-by  !  " 

A  moment,  and  he  lay  there 
A  statue,  pale  and  calm, 

His  youthful  head  reclining 
Upon  his  comrade's  arm. 


LAST  WORDS,  95 


His  limbs  upon  the  greensward 
Were  stretched  in  careless  grace, 

And  by  the  fitful  moon  was  seen 
A  smile  upon  his  face. 


SONG   OF  THE   CROAKER.* 

AN  old  frog  lived  in  a  dismal  swamp, 

In  a  dismal  kind  of  way; 
And  all  that  he  did,  whatever  befell, 
Was  to  croak  the  livelong  day. 

Croak,  croak,  croak, 
When  darkness  filled  the  air, 
And  croak,  croak,  croak, 
When  the  skies  were  bright  and  fair. 

"Good  Master  Frog,  a  battle  is  fought, 
And  the  foeman's  power  is  broke.'' 

But  he  only  turned  a  greener  hue, 
And  answered  with  a  croak. 

*  Written  by  request  for  the  Philadelphia  Sanitary  Fair. 
(96) 


SONG  OF  THE  CROAKER.  97 

Croak,  croak,  croak, 
When  the  clouds  are  dark  and  dun, 

And  croak,  croak,  croak, 
In  the  blaze  of  the  noontide  sun. 

"Good  Master  Frog,  the  forces  of  right 

Are  driving  the  hosts  of  wrong." 
But  he  gave  his  head  an  ominous  shake, 
And  croaked  out,  "  Nous  verrous !  " 

Croak,  croak,  croak, 
Till  the  heart  is  full  of  gloom, 

And  croak,  croak,  croak, 
Till  the  world  seems  but  a  tomb. 

To  poison  the  cup  of  life, 

By  always  dreading  the  worst. 
Is  to  make  of  the  earth  a  dungeon  damp, 

And  the  happiest  life  accursed. 
Croak,  croak,  croak, 

When  the  noontide  sun  rides  high. 


98  IN  TIME  OF  WAR. 

And  croak,  croak,  croak, 
Lest  the  night  come  by  and  by. 

Farewell  to  the  dismal  frog; 

Let  him  croak  as  loud  as  he  may, 
He  cannot  blot  the  sun  from  heaven, 
Nor  hinder  the  march  of  day, 

Though  he  croak,  croak,  croak, 
Till  the  heart  is  full  of  gloom, 

And  croak,  croak,  croak, 
Till  the  world  seems  but  a  tomb. 


KING    COTTON. 

KING  COTTON  looks  from  his  window 

Towards  the  westering  sun, 
And  he  marks,  with  an  anguished  horror, 

That  his  race  is  almost  run. 

His  form  is  thin  and  shrunken; 

His  cheek  is  pale  and  wan; 
And  the  lines  of  care  on  his  furrowed  brow 

Are  dread  to  look  upon. 

But  yesterday  a  monarch, 

In  the  flush  of  his  pomp  and  pride, 
And,  not  content  with  his  own  broad  lands, 

He  would  rule  the  world  beside. 
(99) 


100  AV  TIME   OF   WAR. 

He  built  him  a  stately  palace. 

With  gold  from  beyond  the  sea; 
And  he  laid  with  care  the  corner-stone. 

And  he  called  it  Slavery. 

He  summoned  an  army  with  banners. 

To  keep  his  foes  at  bay; 
And.  gazing  with  pride  on  his  palace  walls. 

He  said.  "They  will  stand  for  aye!" 

But  the  palace  walls  are  shrunken. 

And  partly  overthrown, 
And  the  storms  of  war.  in  their  violence, 

Have  loosened  the  corner-stone. 

Now  Famine  stalks  through  the  palace  halls, 
With  her  gaunt  and  pallid  train; 

You  can  hear  the  cries  of  famished  men, 
As  they  cry  for  bread  in  vain. 


KING  COTTON.  101 

The  king  can  see.   from  his  palace  walls. 

A  land  by  his  pride  betrayed: 
Thousands  of  mothers  and  wives  bereft. 

Thousands  of  graves  new-made. 

And  he  seems  to  see,   in  the  lowering  sky, 

The  shape  of  a  flaming  sword: 
Whereon  he  reads,   with  a,  sinking  heart, 

The  anger  of  the  Lord. 

God  speed  the  time  when  the  guilty  king 

Shall  be  hurled  from  his  blood-stained  throne ; 

And  the  palace  of  Wrong  shall  crumble  to  dust. 
"With  its  1  toasted  corner-stone. 

A  temple  of  Freedom  shall  rise  instead, 

On  the  desecrated  site; 
And  within  its  shelter  alike  shall  stand 

The  black  man  and  the  white. 
(1864.) 


OUT    OF    EGYPT. 

To  Egypt's  king,  who  ruled  beside 

The  reedy  river's  flow, 
Came  God's  command,  "Release.  O  king, 

And  let  my  people  go." 

The  king's  proud  heart  grew  hard  apace; 

He  marked  the  suppliant  throng, 
And  said,  "Nay,  they  must  here  abide; 

The  weak  must  serve  the  strong." 

Straightway  the  Lord  stretched  forth  his  hand, 

And  every  stream  ran  blood; 
The  river  swept  towards  the  sea  — 

A  full  ensanguined  flood. 

(102) 


OUT  OF  EGYPT.  103 

The  haughty  king  beheld  the  land, 

By  plagues  afflicted  sore, 
But,  as  God's  wonders  multiplied, 

Hardened  his  heart  the  more; 

Until  the  angel  of  the  Lord 

Came  on  the  wings  of  Night, 
And  smote  first-born  of  man  and  beast, 

In  his  destructive  flight. 

Throughout  all  Egypt,  not  a  house 
Was  spared  this  crowning  woe. 

Then  broke  the  tyrant's  stubborn  will; 
He  bade  the  people  go. 

They  gathered  up  their  flocks  and  herds, 

Rejoicing  to  be  free; 
And,  going  forth,  a  mighty  host, 

Encamped  beside  the  sea. 


104  /Ar  TIME  OF   WAR. 

Then  Pharaoh's  heart  repented  him; 

He  called  a  mighty  force, 
And  swiftly  followed  on  their  track, 

With  chariot  and  with  horse. 

Then  Israel's  host  were  sore  afraid: 
But  God  was  on  their  side, 

And,  lo!  for  them  a  way  is  cleft,— 
The  Red-sea  waves  divide. 

At  God's  command  the  restless  waves 

Obey  the  prophet's  rod; 
And,  through  the  middle  of  the  sea, 

The  people  marched  dry-shod. 

But,  when  the  spoilers,  following  close, 

Would  hinder  Israel's  flight, 
The  waters  to  their  course  return, 
•    The  parted  waves  unite, 


OUT  OF  EGYPT.  105 

And  Pharaoh's  host  is  swept  away,  — 

The  chariots  and  the  horse : 
And  not  a  man  is  left  alive 

Of  all  that  mighty  force. 

So  in  these  days  God  looks  from  heaven, 

And  marks  his  servants'  woe; 
Hear  ye  his  voice:    "Break  every  yoke, 

And  let  my  people  go!" 

For  them  the  Red-sea  waves  divide, 

The  streams  with  crimson  flow; 
Therefore  we  mourn  for  our  first-born :  — 

Then  let  the  people  go. 

They  are  not  weak  whom  God  befriends, 

He  makes  their  cause  His  own; 
And  they  who  fight  against  God's  might 

Shall  surely  be  o'erthroAvn. 

(1864.) 


THE     PRICE     OF    VICTORY. 

"  A  VICTORY  !  — a  victory  !  " 

Is  flashed  across  the  wires ; 
Speed,  speed  the  news  from  State  to  State, 

Light  up  the  signal  fires ! 
Let  all  the  bells  from  all  the  towers 

A  joyous  peal  ring  out; 
We've  gained  a  glorious  victory, 

And  put  the  foe  to  rout ! 

A  mother  heard  the  chiming  bells ; 

Her  joy  was  mixed  with  pain. 
"Pray  God,"  she  said,  ''ray  gallant  boy 

Be  not  among  the  slain  !  " 
Alas  for  her !  that  very  hour 

Outstretched  in  death  he  lay, 

(100) 


THE  PRICK  OF    VICTORY.  107 

The  color  from  his  fair,  young  face 
Had  scarcely  passed  away. 

His  nerveless  hand  still  grasped  the  sword 

He  never  more  might  wield, 
His  eyes  were  sealed  in  dreamless  sleep 

Upon  that  bloody  field. 
The  chestnut  curls  his  mother  oft 

Had  stroked  in  fondest  pride, 
Neglected  hung  in  clotted  locks, 

With  deepest  crimson  dyed. 

Ah!  many  a  mother's  heart  shall  ache, 

And  bleed  with  anguish  sore, 
When  tidings  come  of  him  who  marched 

So  blithely  forth  to  war. 
Oh  !  sad  for  them,  the  stricken  down 

In  manhood's  early  dawn, 
And  sadder  yet  for  loving  hearts. 

God  comfort  them  that  mourn! 


108  IN  TIME  OF  WAR. 

Yes,  victory  has  a  fearful  price 

Our  hearts  may  shrink  to  pay, 
And  tears  will  mingle  with  the  joy 

That  greets  a  glorious  day. 
But  he  who  dies  in  freedom's  cause, 

We  cannot  count  him  lost: 
A  battle  won  for  truth  and  right 

Is  worth  the  blood  it  cost  ! 

0  mothers !  count  it  something  gained 

That  they,  for  whom  you  mourn, 
Bequeath  fair  Freedom's  heritage 

To  millions  yet  unborn:  — 
And  better  than  a  thousand  years 

Of  base,  ignoble  breath, 
A  patriot's  fragrant  memory, 

A  hero's  early  death ! 


HARVARD    ODES. 

SUNG    AT    ANNUAL    DINNERS    OF    THE    HARVARD    CI.I  It 
OF    NEW    YORK. 


HARVARD    ODES. 
I. 

(Feb.  23,  1869.) 

FAIR  HARVARD,  dear  guide  of  our  youth's  golden 

days; 

At  thy  name  all  our  hearts  own  a  thrill, 
We    turn    from    life's    highways,    its    business,    its 

cares, 

We  are  boys  in  thy  tutelage  still. 
And  the  warm  blood  of  youth    to   our  veins,  as   of 

yore, 

Returns  with  impetuous  flow, 
Reviving  the  scenes  and  the  hopes  that  were  ours 

In  the  vanished,  but  sweet  Long  Ago. 
(ill) 


112  HARVARD   ODES. 

Once  more  through  thy  walks,  Alma  Mater,  we  tread. 

And  we  dream  youth's  fair  dreams  once  again, 
We  are  heroes  in  fight  for  the  Just  and  the  Right, 

We  are  knights  without  fear,  without  stain; 
Its  doors  in  fair  prospect  the  world  opens  wide, 

Its  prizes  seem  easy  to  win.  — 
We   are   strong   in   our  faith,   we    are   bold    in    our 
might, 

And  we  long  for  the  race  to  begin. 

Though  dimmed  are  our  hopes,  and  our  visions  are 
fled, 

Our  dreams  were  but  dreams,  it  is  true ; 
Dust-stained  from  the  contest  we  gather  to-night. 

The  sweet  dreams  of  youth  to  renew. 
Enough  for  to-morrow  the  cares  it  shall  bring. 

We  are  boys,  we  are  brothers,  to-night: 
And  our  hearts,   warm  with  love,  Alma  Mater,  to 
thee, 

Shall  in  loyal  devotion  unite. 


HARVARD   ODES.  113 


II. 

(Feb.  11,  1870.) 

As  we  meet  in  thy  name,  Alma  Mater,  to-night, 

All  our  hearts  and  our  hopes  are  as  one, 
And  love  for  the  mother  that  nurtured  his  youth 

Beats  high  in  the  breast  of  each  son. 
The  sweet  chords  of  Memory  bridge  o'er  the  Past, 

The  years  fade  away  like  a  dream, 
By  the  banks  of  Cephissus,  beneath  the  green  trees, 

We  tread  thy  fair  walks,  Academe. 

The  heights  of  Hymettus  that  bound  the  near  view 

Fill  the  air  with  an  odor  as  sweet 
As  the  beautiful  clusters  of  sun-tinted  grapes 

From  the  vineyards  that  lie  at  our  feet. 


114  HARVARD    ODES. 

0  realm  of  enchantment,   0  wonderful  land, 
Where  the  gods  hold  high  converse  with  men. 

Come  out  from  the  dusk  of  past  ages  once  more, 
And  live  in  our  fancy  again. 

Let  us  drink  to  the  Past  as  our  glasses  we  lift, 

Let  eye  speak  to  eye,  heart  to  heart, 
Let  the  bonds  of  sweet  fellowship  bind  each  to  each 

In  the  hours  that  remain  ere  we  part. 
And  thou,  A.lma  Mater,  grown  fairer  with  age, 

Let  us  echo  the  blessing  that  fell 
From  thy  motherly  lips,  as  we  stood  at  thy  side, 

And  thou  bad'st  us  God-speed  and  Farewell. 


HARVARD   ODES.^  115 


III. 

(Feb.  21,  1872.) 

FAIR    HARVARD,    the    months    have    accomplished 
their  round 

And  a  year  stands  full-orbed  and  complete, 
Since  last  at  thy  summons,  with  dutiful  hearts, 

Thy  children  sat  here  at  thy  feet. 
Since    last    in    thy    presence,    grown   youthful    once 
more, 

We  drank  to  the  past  and  its  joys, 
Shaking  off  every  care  that  encumbered  our  years, 

And  dreamed  that  again  we  were  boys. 

To-night  once  again  in  thy  presence  we  meet 
In  the  freshness  and  flush  of  life's  spring; 


116  UAKVARD   ODES. 

We  wait  but  thy  blessing,  we  ask  but  thy  smile. 

As  our  sails  to  the  free  air  we  fling. 
The  winds  breathe  auspicious  that  waft  us  along. 

The  sky.   undisturbed,  smiles  serene. 
Hope    stands    at   the    prow,  and    the    waters    gleam 
bright 

With  sparkles  of  silvery  sheen. 

And  thy  voice,  Alma    Mater,  -so  potent  and  sweet, 

Still  sounds  in  our  ears  as  of  yore, 
And  thy  motherly  counsel  we  hear,  wisdom-fraught, 

As  we  push  our  frail  barks  from  the   shore. 
From   the    foam-crested   waves   of  the    mountainous 
sea 

As  backward  our  glances  we  strain. 
We  see  the  dear  face  of  our  mother  benign, 

And  bless  her  again  and  again. 


HARVARD   ODES.  117 


IV. 

(Feb.  21,  1873.) 

THERE'S  a  fountain  of  Fable  whose  magical   power 

Time's  ravages  all  could  lepair, 
And  replace  the  bowed  form  and  the  tottering  step, 

The  wrinkles  and  silvery  hair, 

By   the   brown   flowing    locks    and    the    graces    of 
youth, 

Its  footstep  elastic  and  light, 

Could    mantle    the    cheek    with     its    long- vanished 
'bloom 

And  make  the  dull  eye  keen  and  bright. 

'Tis  only  a  fable  —  a  beautiful  dream, 

But  the  fable,  the  dream,  shall  come  true, 


118  HARVARD  ODES. 

As  thy  sons,  Alma  Mater,  assemble  to-night 

The  joys  of  past  years  to  renew. 
Our  eyes   shall   grow  bright  with    their  old  wonted 

light, 

Our  spirits  untrammelled  by  care, 
And  the  Goddess  of  Hope,  with  her  fresh  rainbow 

tints, 
Shall  paint  every  prospect  more  fair. 

How  sweet  were  the  friendships  we  formed    in    thy 
halls  ! 

How  strong  were  the  tendrils  that  bound 
Our  hearts  to  the  mother  whose  provident  care 

Encompassed  her  children  around ! 
Now  strong  in  our  manhood  we  cherish  her  still ; 

And  if  by  misfortune  brought  low. 
Our  strength  shall    support  her,  our  arms  bear  her 
up, 

And  sustain  her  through  weal  and  through  woe. 


OCCASIONAL    ODES. 


OCCASIONAL    ODES. 

BI-CENTENNIAL   ODE.* 

(June  13,  18GO.) 

FROM   the  door  of  the  homestead   the  mother   looks 
forth, 

With  a  glance  half  of  hope,  half  of  fear, 
For  the  clock  in  the  corner  now  points  to  the  hour 

When  the  children  she  loves  should  appear. 
For  have  they  not  promised,  whatever  betide, 

On  this  their  dear  mother's  birthday, 
To  gather  once  more  round  the  family  board, 

Their  dutiful  service  to  pay? 

*  Sung  at  the  bi-ccntennial  celebration  of  the  incorporation  of 

Marlboro',  Mass. 

(121) 


122  OCCASIONAL   ODES. 

From   the  East  and  the  West,  from  the  North   and 
the  South, 

In  communion  and  intercourse  sweet. 
Her  children  have  come,  on  this  festival  day, 

To  sit,  as  of  old,  at  her  feet. 
And  our  mother, —  God  bless  her  benevolent  face  !  — 

How  her  heart  thrills  with  motherly  joys. 
As  she  stands  at  the  portal,  with  arms  opened  wide, 

To  welcome  hsr  girls  and  her  boys ! 

And  yet,  when  the  first  joyful  greetings  are  o'er, 

"\Vhen  the  words  of  her  welcome  are  said, 
A  shadow  creeps  over  her  motherly  face, 

As  she  silently  thinks  of  the  dead,  — 
Of  the  children  whose  voices  once  rang  through  her 
fields, 

Who  shared  all  her  hopes  and  alarms, 
Till,  tired  with  the  burden  and  heat  of  the  day, 

They  have  fallen  asleep  in  her  arms. 


SI-CENTENNIAL   ODE.  ]  23 

They    have    gone    from    our    midst,  but  their   labors 
abide 

On  the  fields  where  they  prayerfully  wrought: 
They  scattered  the  seed,  but  the  harvest  is  ours, 

By  their  toil  and  self-sacrifice  bought. 
As  we  scan  the  fair  scene    that    once    greeted    their 
eyes, 

As  we  tread  the  same  paths  which  they  trod, 
Let  us  tenderly  think  of  our  elders  by  birth, 

Who  have  gone  to  their  rest,  and  their  God. 

God  bless  the  old  homestead !  some  linger  there  still, 

In  the  haunts  which  their  childhood  has  known, 
While  others  have  wandered  to  places  remote, 

And  planted  new  homes  of  their  own ; 
But  Time  cannot  weaken  the  ties  Love  creates, 

Nor  absence,  nor  distance,  impede 
The  filial  devotion  which  thrills  all  our  hearts, 

As  we  bid  our  old  mother  God-speed. 


FOR  THE  CONSECRATION  OF  A 
CEMETERY. 

THIS  verdant  field  that  smiles  to  Heaven 

In  Nature's  bright  array, 
From  common  uses  set  apart, 

We  consecrate  to-day. 

'•God's  Acre"  be  it  fitly  called, 

For  -when,  beneath  the  sod, 
We  lay  the  dead  •with  reverent  hands, 

We  yield  them  back  to  God. 

And  His  great  love,  so  freely  given, 

Shall  speak  in  clearer  tone:-. 
When,  pacing  through  these  hallowed  walks. 

We  read  memorial  stones. 

(124) 


FOB   THE  CONSECRATION  OF  A   CEMETERY.         125 

Here  let  the  sunshine  softly  fall. 

And  gently  drop  the  rain, 
And  Nature's  countless  harmonies 

Blend  one  accordant    strain; 

That  they  who  seek  this  sacred  place, 

In  mourning  solitude, 
In  all  this  gracious  company 

May  have  their  faith  renewed. 

So,  lifted  to  serener  heights, 

And  purified  from  dross, 
Their  trustful  hearts  shall  rest  on  God, 

And  profit  by  their  loss. 


23571 


